Afterglow
by SeungSeiRan
Summary: Here he remained, trying to deflect the light that had tarnished his apathetic mind and heart. Lee x Jun.


Yup, you guys read right. Lee/Jun. They could be good together minus the Kazuya factor (no offense to you Kaz/Jun shippers, where are you guys by the way?). Another pointless oneshot from someone who likes to experiment and display the results :).

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Second place has such a cutting ring to it. Two cutting little syllables combined to form one cutting little word. _Second_.

He wondered if he should've gotten used to it by now.

The bowl-shaped wine-glass was cold in his palm, the pale scarlet liquid deathly still. Like a corpse. He pondered before he took a contemplative sip.

Relegated to the position of second place since _he _had come along. His own 'brother's' lowly secretary and janitor. Still, the second-hand power that came with the job did have its plus points.

'_Mishima-san's entourage, sir? This way please.'_

Swanky night-clubs, posh hotels. Fine wine, fast cars, adoring women who'd do anything and exactly as he pleased. Living the life in general. A far cry from the days of fighting for food scraps on the street as a child. It would have surprised outsiders had they come to know of Kazuya Mishima's haughty nancy-boy's talent in that area. But then again, why bother? Those days had long since passed. The scrawny young orphan from the streets of China had finally made it. He'd gotten what he'd wanted.

Sort of.

He glanced surreptitiously at the imposing granite wall-clock that graced the slate-grey wall opposite him. Quarter to eleven. Fifteen minutes before Anna had agreed to show up for their not-so-secret, office-time rendezvous. He took another swallow of alcohol and ran his fingers through his silver mane in preparation.

Of course, everyone knew about them by now. You could always rely on the natural nosiness of secretaries who spread the word over telephone receivers, behind veils of white-gloved hands and low, discreet giggles. Unlike most men who would've been in his position, he quite enjoyed the attention. Not every man he knew of could boast about taking home a new, young, highly attractive specimen of femininity every night. Not once a month, not once a week, or once in a while but _every night._

It was a full-moon night. He swiveled his chair away from the window to avoid the pristine glow of the moonlight.

The desk was big enough by his standards. Plenty of space for work and… _play_.

His free hand wandered over the smooth varnished wood surface. He'd dimmed the lights on purpose so that every object cast a shadow. The dark streams brought about by his own long, experienced fingers served to testify. On their journey across the desk, his finger-tips touched the paper.

Ah, yes. The documents _she_ had brought up to him. Told him to deliver to his 'boss'.

Plain young creature as he recalled. Probably considered beautiful in the traditional sense. However, his tastes were anything but traditional…

Still, she'd been easier on the eyes than that scruffy Native American girl. Definitely more responsive than that cold, stuck-up blonde with the nice legs.

But alas, not his type. No, not at all.

He took another swig of wine. Nothing like alcohol to help you forget. And remember.

"_I don't drink alcohol, Mr. Chaolan."_

Really? What a surprise, he thought sarcastically. She hadn't come across as the type who was up for dirty talking and one-night stands. How old was she? About twenty-two, he believed. And possibly still a virgin. Snagging a virgin should have been considered a tremendous feat, especially nowadays. That is, unless if you were in the habit of dating middle-school girls. The flower waiting to be plucked. There was always some fun in that.

Not that she'd _wanted_ any fun from him. For a woman of such a seemingly delicate constitution, she'd remained surprisingly firm on that matter. He hadn't pressed her after that. After all, there were many fish in the sea. Plenty of flowers in the meadow.

But the hand that had stroked the flower hadn't been his own. Yet again, he'd been bested by his adoptive brother. Those hidden liaisons and 'private meetings'? Heh, he'd practically kept a record. Kazuya of all people. He never could have guessed. Not in a thousand lifetimes.

Jun Kazama. The living epitome of purity.

That wouldn't last. She'd be tainted in no time. Kazuya would see to that.

Stupid, hopelessly naïve woman. Now she'd have to pay the price for that wretched purity.

Because if she had accepted his offer, it would have been a different story. Maybe even a happier ending...

He glared at the now-empty glass. The wine had gotten too much for him. Made him actually _care_. Either that or his conscience being an unusually loud protestor tonight. It was usually so easy. Bed the girl, leave when you were done. No real affection, no strings attached. The same routine, night after night. And she'd come, gone, and sapped the pleasure out of it. Because it hadn't been real pleasure and she hadn't been real to him.

In his world of artificial love and jaded, cynical souls, she'd been as unreal yet real as a spirit. Her pure miasma had permeated his flickering, neon-lit corner. But unlike that miasma, he had a sickening feeling that it wouldn't seep out so easily.

And here he sat, trying to hurry that process. Sweep away her presence out of his life. Away with her, away with the purity. Drown it in the depths of an intoxicant, whether it be in a bottle of liquor or the arms of a seductress in red.

Let the red stain the white of the moon.

Wash away the guilt, wash away the emotions.

Five minutes remaining.

Maybe he could call the whole thing off. He'd make time for Anna later. He should check on Kazuya. Make sure the bastard was staying in line. He never should have left Jun alone with him. There was no telling what insidious thoughts might be crossing the other man's mind at this very moment. Purity lay before evil. Such a tempting presence. Things would never be the same again…

He snapped himself out of it. Now he was the one being foolish. Whatever Kazuya did in his privacy was none of his secretary's business (as he had been reminded on countless occasions). That Kazama woman should be quite capable of taking care of herself. Wasn't she a fellow martial artist herself? Tsk, tsk. He reprimanded himself for worrying over such trifles.

It wasn't like she'd cared about him either.

The handle on the door began to turn.


End file.
